


Lets Raise Our Glass to Another Day

by jonasnightingale



Category: NCIS
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Tag, Episode: s01e23 Reveille, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Kate Lives, Missing Scene, Tension, Twilight denial, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, tate - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 13:51:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19831558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jonasnightingale/pseuds/jonasnightingale
Summary: Post s01e23 reveille fix-it.After a day of being pistol-whipped by terrorists and poured wine by a psychopath, Kate's fingers itch for her gun at the shadow in her doorway. But tonight they stow the head-slaps and targeted elbows, and let the hints of something less fit for Jerry Springer take the lead.





	Lets Raise Our Glass to Another Day

The steady rap of knuckles against her door has her reaching for her gun. Her mind is a mess of too many tangled emotions to start working through and she sits perched on the edge of the couch, still in the same neat outfit she’d dressed in this morning. She’s moving silently to the door when she hears his voice through its panel - “Kate? It’s me. Tony. It’s just Tony.” - and she drops her gun with a short guffaw. She isn’t expecting him and when she opens the door he looks as uncertain as she is. She doesn’t say anything; knows she should play into their usual banter and lead with a brusk remark about how the hell he got her address, but there’s something in his face that stops her. When he shoots her a smile and a warm “Hi.” she feels herself take the first decent breath she’s had in hours. His voice is gentle, quiet, softer than she’s used to. He raises the bag in his hands lamely and offers “I wanted to check on you; thought you might need some dinner, and,” his eyes dart quickly to his own shoes “a friend.” 

She watches his form with a fondness she usually suppresses as he deposits the bag of food on her counter and hangs up his jacket. His eyes catalogue the apartment swiftly, smile ticking up at the framed photos scattered about. The quiet between them feels unfamiliar, fragile, yet it’s buoyed by the ‘almost’ that’s existed between them so long, emboldened by all the moments of sincerity they’ve shared between food-fights and sharp elbows. 

His hand is gentle on her chin, tilting it towards the light to inspect the red welt, the spot of dried blood still marring her skin. He lets his thumb graze softly beneath it, tries to ignore the catch in her breath at the uncharacteristic tenderness. When he directs her to “Go take a shower, Kate. I’ll dish dinner.” his voice is merely a whisper and her eyes flicker across his face before she nods and retreats. 

She lets the hot water lick her wounds, indulges in a few moments with the tears that leak through her lashes.

When she returns he’s leaning with both elbows on her kitchen island, scrolling on his PDA, two glasses of wine and bowls of Chinese food before him. He stands, pocketing the phone, as she pads towards him. But as he pushes the wineglass towards her she surprises them both by taking another step forward and wrapping her arms around him. It’s been a year of putting up with each other, of having each other’s backs; they’ve known fleeting touch in hands checking after explosions, in arms brushing in elevators after long days, but this is new. It takes the length of his surprised exhale for his arms to return the embrace. She indulges in burying her head further into his neck as he lets himself breathe in the soft scent of her warm skin. And for a few seconds they inhabit a small fantasy that this could be a new sort of normal. He pulls her impossibly closer. She lets her fingers run through his hair, lingering at the back of his head where Marta had threatened to put a bullet. “Thank you for not dying today”. He coughs out a sour laugh, “Kate. I think that’s my line tonight.” There’s something he can’t recognise in her eyes, an uncertain crease in her brow, but as he cocks his head to ask she breaks the contact, moving to collect her glass of wine and holding it between them in wait “Well then, to surviving another day.” He lets it go, reaching for his own glass to bring it up in cheers, “To another day”. 

She wants to tell him, that she was not the only one a hostage today, not really. But for all the bravado he fronts she’s always known he cares about her, in his way, and she can’t burden him with the weight of today’s traumas. His life was their bargaining chip, and damn did they know what they were doing. She can’t tell him the professed ‘love of his life’ died with a bullet hole through her head, still clad in the clothes she’d used to entice him.

Instead she lets him have the extra spring roll, but steals the pork bun from his plate. They rate their favourite dishes, restaurants, contemplate the similarities between making ravioli and dumplings. When she misjudges the lip of his glass as she pours a refill the red liquid spills across the leg of his jeans and he’s quick to jest with “If you wanted me to take my pants off you could have just asked” as he wipes down the table and pats his pants. She finds her cheeks warming as her mouth parts with no response. She doesn’t want to turn this into another barbed argument, is content and warm in their tentative peace tonight, and any denial suddenly feels a lie on her lips. It takes a couple more beats than she’d like but finally she raises an eyebrow and swirls around her wine, mustering her best Abby impression as she pushes out a “Really?” His eyes bounce startled to her and the faint pink hue across his complexion gives her satisfaction. His mouth moves to form a retort before morphing into an affectionate grin. 

She settles onto the couch with feet tucked beneath her and lets him pick the movie. The wine has made her pliant, its fingers stretching up through her chest with warmth, and she tries to not overthink it as she nestles into his side as the night pressing against the window grows darker. Tries not to overthink it when he wraps an arm around her and long fingers rub soothingly at her collarbone. As sleep nips at the edges of her consciousness she really tries to not overthink what Tony had said about just having to ask, and the prickle of heat that reminds her just how badly she does want to sometimes do just that. 


End file.
